I have a daughter.

Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a new revelation. I’ve realized this since the moment I first laid eyes on our new baby and promptly asked the doctor “Where’s his penis?”

There are certain things that I’m coming to realize about having a daughter. The natural element in this list is Leanne’s eventual adventures into dating. I’m actually not worried about that one yet, not that people don’t frequently remind me I’ll have to address this in the future. But simply put, there are more pressing issues.

For instance, I dread the day when I have to assemble the Power Wheels Barbie Escalade. I don’t know if it’s the fact that it pegged the human eye’s saturation capacity for the color pink or simply that it’s a god damn Escalade, but I’ve already come to realize it will be in a rather inebriated state that I conquer that particular task. And ideally, I’ll be drunk enough to follow through with my wishes to take a bat to it before Leanne ever sets eyes on it.

Tonight the three of us went to Rita’s after dinner. Apparently we didn’t realize just how tired Leanne was as she screamed the entire drive there. On the way back, we barely made it out of the parking lot before she started up again.

Before I realized what had happened, Meg turned on the CD player. Unexpectedly, I had reached a new milestone in being a parent: children songs in the car.

This old man, he played eleven;
He played knick-knack on the way to heaven
With a knick-knack, paddy whack
Give a dog a bone;
This old man came rolling home

I like to think I have a solid grasp of the English language. Yet in this quote, the only words that I really understand are “man” and “eleven”. I don’t know what the hell “knick-knack” is or why he’s doing it while he is apparently dead. And “paddy whack”… well, you get the picture.

Do your ears hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
Can you throw them o’er your shoulder
like a continental soldier?
Do your ears hang low?

I don’t know if they are talking about a rabbit or some other odd creature, I just know that I want it dead.

Believe it or not, there is a second verse to this song. Actually, they are four in total, each even more mind-numbing than the previous. For instance:

Do your ears hang high?
Do they reach up to the sky?
Do they droop when they are wet?
Do they stiffen when they’re dry?
Can you semaphore your neighbour
with a minimum of labour?
Do your ears hang high?

In case I wasn’t the only one wondering, here is the dictionary.com reference to “semaphore”. I won’t even tell you what I thought they were suggesting I do to my neighbor. I defy every one of my readers to attempt to use the question “Can you semaphore your neighbor with a minimum of labour?” in regular conversation today.

What I don’t understand is why they have to have children sing the songs. Track after awful track of haunting, whispering children singing poured forth from the speakers. It’s bad enough to hear a version of Silent Night at Christmas take this approach. An entire CD of this is widely considered capital punishment.

I also came to the realization that if I were to ever go on a murderous rampage, I’d make sure to keep this CD playing in the background. I’m not sure if I think it would be to qualify me as a shoe-in for an insanity plea or for the complete and utter horror the sounds induce in people, but frankly, either explanation works.

And the most depressing aspect of the CD is that it worked. Leanne immediately got quiet. Of course, you can’t exactly say the drive home was peaceful. We traded Leanne screaming for children songs. That’s like stepping in a puddle of water only to have your next step be into a pile of dog shit.